Restored To The Light
by coruscantbookshelf
Summary: AU! Immediate sequel to My Child. The slow road to recovery. Strong H/C, some disturbing scenes. Gratitude to ruth baulding.
1. Prelude & Situation

_Damage? I assume you mean physical damage – mental is beyond me to calculate. I have Nasriel's permission to tell you all this, by the way. So. In order, least to most worrying. Two months at Chu'unthor have dealt with some of it by sheer time, but I'm afraid it does mean most of the scarring is permanent._

 _These holos are on her file now, locked of course. Yes, poor Nasriel indeed. The lines are from a beating with an electrical wire. No, not live;_ these _are electrical burn scars. For_ those _it was just a wire used as a whip. That? Thermal burn, probably a cigarette or herbal. This holo... hmm. Ah – pieces of soft tissue removed. With pliers, by the look of it. Grip and twist – see the star shape? Would have hurt like hell._

 _What next? The bastards broke her arm and it knitted crooked, so I've had to break it again to reset the bone. Bacta, and it'll be useable in a day or two. A vast array of bacterial and viral infections – all the usual suspects, and a few more besides. Don't look at me like that, you knew where she was. Be grateful she's still negative for the autoimmune viruses, because even I can't fix those. Antibiotics for the rest._

 _Dreadfully underweight, but you knew that. She's not even to enter the dojo, much less duel, until she's back past... I'll make it thirty-five kilograms, which is still far too low, but survivable. Understood?_

 _The blood loss is immense, and it troubles me, not least because there is not a single person in the Temple who could serve as a blood donor. No, don't even suggest it – she's Brycherin-neutral, which is rarer than I care to think about, and blood with the X_ or _Y factors would kill her outright. She'll just have to take it easy for a while._

 _Is that all? Let me check my notes. Two teeth knocked out. Mild case of consumption – antibiotics for that as well._

 _I know I'm not qualified to discuss mental damage, but... be nice to the girl, unnatural though you'll certainly find that. Let her take her own time over talking about what's happened. And if you so much as_ insinuate _in her hearing that_ any _of this_ might _have been her fault, so help me I will kill you myself. Don't expect everything to jump back to normal, either. Because it won't. You're all she's got right now. Make it count for something._


	2. The Key

"Where's Nasriel?" Qui-Gon looked up quickly as the door to the quarters opened, only to return to his contemplation of the traffic outside, on seeing that the intruder was only Obi-Wan. And apparently, a former Padawan was no substitute for a current such. Eight months ago, sixteen-year-old Nasriel Threeb had been kidnapped and sold into a peculiarly vile form of slavery. Two months ago, she had been rescued by a Sentinel team. A week ago, she had been brought back to the Temple, and all concerned were struggling to adjust.

"Your guess is as good as mine, Master," the younger Jedi said mildly, forgetting, as usual, to omit the honorific that had become ingrained habit. "I invited her yesterday to go for a walk with me, just to get her out of the quarters, I spent an hour in the gardens with her – mostly sitting still, she's weak yet – and she said six words in that whole time. They were, 'certainly I'll come,' 'really?' and 'thank you.' Hardly enlightening."

"She won't speak to me." The oily scum of misery drifted at the surface of the Master's aura, deceptive, hiding the storm of regret and anguish beneath. "When I enter a room, she leaves at once. When I try to talk to her, she listens, but won't respond. She's being a model Padawan, but her heart's not in it."

"Let me try. Our... common ground might let me get through to her where you can't."

"Why are you spending so much time on this? I'm grateful, but you have your own Padawan to worry about."

"Because... it was a long time ago, but however much I try to bury it, I'll never truly escape until I can give someone else the means to escape the same thing. I think Nasriel will be fine once she's given the key. It took me years to find it – I don't want to see her go through all that." Quietly, he placed his comlink on the table. "I know where to start looking."

Nasriel's friend in the Archives had suggested a place where there was a stone seat, near the waterfall in the Gardens, and sure enough, Obi-Wan found her there. Sitting on the ground in front of the seat, knees drawn up and arms folded, she did not turn when he approached, but nodded slowly, as if expecting something of the sort, and kept her eyes firmly fixed on the waterfall.

"The gardens are so peaceful at this time of day." Obi-Wan stood behind the chair, neither quite present nor entirely absent.

"You told me yesterday that you were raped when you were my age."

"That is correct."

"That you said it, or that it happened?"

"Both." Nasriel did not reply for a long time, and he was about to slip away again as quietly as he had come, when she suddenly twisted around to look up at him.

"Please stay. You don't know what it means to me that _someone_ understands, even if it's only you."

"Tell you what: I'll trade you. Story for story. Question for question. Honesty guaranteed. Talking helps. I promise."

"Deal. You go first."

"Do you mind if I come down there and join you? It's been a long time, but it's still hard."

"You're stalling. Please yourself."

Sitting relaxed, legs extended, ankles locked, a conscious opposite to the miserably huddled girl beside him, he began, telling facts and impressions from long ago, matter-of-factly, though it took a supreme effort of the will to avoid clenching his fists and hissing the words. At the end, he shrugged, as if it was all unimportant, although his very soul screamed at him that it was nothing of the sort.

"Your turn."

"Which one shall I tell you?" Nasriel asked bitterly. "There were so many."

"Just the first, then. Or the last, or the worst."

Nasriel was not matter-of-fact, or calm, or controlled, and he had not expected her to be. He held out his hand to her, and she took it, squeezing tightly, nails digging in. The tears were still wet on her cheeks when she stopped talking, abruptly, in the middle of a sentence, and turned to study his face.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Anything."

"Did they catch the guy?"

"No." And for that, he was – sometimes – almost – glad.

"Okay. Your turn."

"The baby – boy or girl?"

"Boy." Nasriel swallowed hard, looking back to the waterfall. "Half-Twi'lek boy."

"I'm sorry."

"Doesn't matter." She shuddered, the last lingering vestige of tears. "My turn: you ever wish you could find the guy and kill him? Slowly?"

"Oh, yes. You wouldn't believe."

"I don't. Want to kill them. Myself, sometimes." It was the _them_ that stung Obi-Wan. What had he been thinking – that their sufferings had been equal? He had barely glimpsed the border of the dark land she had traversed from end to end.

"Not until we've finished talking." Obi-Wan wasn't sure any longer where he meant this conversation to go. "What's it like, being pregnant?"

"Being – or getting?"

"Being."

"Weird. Really weird. It took me a long time to work out why I was so sick all the time... then one of the other girls told me. She was too. Further on. They – they –" Nasriel's muffled monotone dissolved abruptly into silent sobs, and Obi-Wan tentatively put his arm around her shoulders, afraid she'd take it the wrong way, afraid she'd get up and leave and never return, but desperate to let her know she wasn't alone.

"You don't have to go on unless you want to."

"I have to," Nasriel gasped. "I do. Just... give me a minute." She fought to get herself back under control, then nodded briskly. "Okay. I used to... to daydream about getting out of there, and having my baby, and finding some nice young couple who'd sent their child to the Temple and wanted another. And I'd come home and everything would go back to the way it was." She shook her head, silent amazement at her own past naïveté. "There were five of us. They kept us in a room in the basement. Take one upstairs when – when there was a client. Beat her – or one of the others – or both – if she didn't perform perfectly. One girl – I don't even know her name – she had a baby – they took it and smashed its head against the wall – and she was the next one sent upstairs – she didn't come back."

"I see."

"You ever take a girl?" It was a valid question, and they had a deal. _Honesty guaranteed_. Not something he would ever admit to anybody else – ever – but...

"No."

"You ever want to?"

"That's quite a difficult question."

"Answer it."

"Yes." Of course. "And no." Equally of course. "I know how much it hurts as a boy. I don't know if it's different for a girl, and I wouldn't want to inflict that on anybody else." Worse than the pain had been the humiliation, the burning shame and degradation of being _used_ and tossed aside. Even an enemy – someone who hated you – had to acknowledge that you were worthy of the emotional energy it took to hate. A rapist acknowledged nothing, and took everything.

"It's not. Either way hurts just as much." And there they were again, staring at each other across the boundary of that dark place. _Things he couldn't even imagine_... there were more ways to hurt a girl.

"I get another question now."

"Two. One for have you, and one for did you want to."

"Two. What's going on between you and Master Jinn?"

"Nothing," Nasriel replied bleakly. "He doesn't want me anymore, and I try to keep out of his way."

"What makes you think that?" Reckless wasting of a question. It didn't matter that he already knew. Didn't matter that he'd thought the same, for the same reasons, for a few horrible months twenty years ago.

"What makes me think that is the difference between _before_ and _now_. Before, I'd come into the room, and he'd look up, and smile when he saw it was me. Now, either he doesn't look, or he frowns. Before, he used to stroke my hair, or rest his hand on my shoulder, for a second, in passing, and hug me sometimes, and stuff like that. Now, he won't even risk touching my fingertips in handing me an ink-pencil. Puts things down for me to pick up. It's like I'm – it's like he's constantly reminding me I'm still dirty, still defiled, still don't deserve his attention. He used to deliberately schedule in time for me, wouldn't even take calls from the _Council_ in that time. He made me feel so special. A hundred little ways of letting me know he loved me. But that's all over now."

Obi-Wan nodded in understanding. Time was running in circles again... "I know exactly what you're talking about, Nasriel. Qui-Gon was like that with me as well, after... well, after. It was months before I dared ask what was going on."

"Well, what is?"

"He doesn't want to hurt you. He's afraid if he says the wrong thing, or does something and you misread it, he'll lose you all over again. So, instead of talking, he keeps his distance, and hopes someday you'll close the gap. Tahl is more direct, but Bant told her to stay out of this one."

"I wish I believed you. I wish I didn't know deep down that Qui-Gon sent you to try and _snap me out of it_." Glittering drops were rolling down her face again, but her voice, though soft and deeply unhappy, was steady. "I need to make a few things clear. I've failed. I tried to get away at Laerdocia – and I failed. I tried to save that other girl and her baby – and I failed. I tried to retain some faint shreds of hope, and protect _my_ baby – and I despaired, and the baby died. And the whole sorry mess ended in a pool of blood at midnight, and I feel like I'm still drowning in it."

"Nasriel –"

"I'm not done. When I told Qui-Gon about it – when I _started_ to tell him, hardly anything, he said 'I see'. Not 'I'm sorry', not 'oh, Nasriel,' in that gentle way he has, just... 'I see'. I've been less than the mud on the sidewalk ever since. And I know I'm dirt now, a _thing_ , bought and sold and rented out a hundred times, tainted, worthless – but I had hoped – it was all I had to hope for – I hoped I might still be a pathetic life-form."

He raised her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes. "Will you do something for me? Will you wait here an hour, and then come home? Just once more. After that I swear I will never ask again."

"Once." The golden eyes were drowning in tears, and her lips trembled on the edge of weeping.

"Thank you." As Obi-Wan drew Nasriel into his lap, cradling her like a youngling, the floodgates opened, and the girl wept freely, pouring out the pain and humiliation and loss of the months past in a torrent of sobs. He held her tightly, and waited, not interfering, or telling the well-worn lie, that everything was all right. They both knew it wasn't.

When the first front of anguish was past, Nasriel mopped clumsily at her eyes with her sleeve.

"I guess you're going now."

"It is my honor to be at your service until you say otherwise. That's the first time you've cried since coming home, so I don't think that will be all."

"It's the first time anybody's given a damn about me, so it's the first time I've come home at all."

For two hours he held her, as fresh waves of grief broke, and ebbed away, and returned with renewed force. And he understood. The will of the Force to break him all those years ago had allowed him now to reach the devastated girl before him, and help her begin to rebuild from the rubble of a brutally shattered spirit, as he had done so many years before. It hurt to reopen old wounds. It _hurt;_ the cost was great, but so was the reward.

Nasriel said suddenly, "I don't think I'm going to cry anymore. Not just now. But I feel so empty."

"Since all that was left in you was grief, then yes, I imagine you do."

"I suppose you wanted the hour to go talk to Qui-Gon."

"Yes."

"All right. I don't hope for anything to come of it, but I will be home in an hour. Please don't – please don't go away before I come. I can't face him alone."

"I shall see you in an hour, then."

* * *

"Hello?" Obi-Wan slipped into the main room of the quarters, closing the door and making sure of Tahl's absence. It was bad enough that he was involved in this affair, which should have been between Master and Padawan alone, without involving anybody else.

"Where have you been?"

"In the gardens with Nasriel. She'll be back in an hour, but I need to talk to you, Qui-Gon."

"So it worked better than you hoped. What is going on?"

"Rather better, yes. But I hope I never have to do anything like it again. Well. I'm afraid much of the problem lies in things you could have done – should have done – days ago. Weeks ago. When she was with the Sentinels."

An hour later, there came a timid knock at the door, and Qui-Gon hastened to open it. Nasriel stood in the doorway, twisting her fingers together behind her back, as nervous as Obi-Wan had ever seen her.

"Master –" She was shaking, frightened of what he'd say, frightened he wouldn't say anything.

"Nasriel." From the other side of the room, Obi-Wan silently smiled encouragement. Nasriel took a tentative step forward, jerky as a puppet, and his heart bled for her. He knew the sick hollow feeling she was experiencing, knew what courage it had taken her to return here at all. One more step – she stumbled and almost fell, but Qui-Gon caught her, kneeling on the floor, holding his Padawan as if he would never let her go.

"Nasriel, I'm so sorry." Her arms were around his neck, her face turned away, and she was shuddering, but not crying. "So sorry. My darling child."

"That's not right," Nasriel objected, in a faint whisper. "You never call me that."

"I'm glad you're back, minx. And sorry I kept you away so long."

"Better."

Obi-Wan left silently.


	3. The Past

That evening:

"Go to bed, Padawan."

"I – I – may I stay up for another hour, Master?" Nasriel's thin fingers fidgeted around her teacup, empty the past twenty minutes. She had only been drinking hot water anyway. "I don't really –"

"You may leave the light on, or the door open, or sleep in your clothes, or all three, but you absolutely must and will rest. That is an order."

Shortly after midnight, Qui-Gon looked in on his Padawan to find that she had chosen _all three_ , and was curled up in both her woolen blankets _and_ her cloak, a shapeless pile occupying only the upper third of the narrow mattress, but still wide awake.

"Can't sleep?"

"No. Every time I close my eyes, I'm alone again, and I'm _there_ again, and –" Nasriel shook her head in quiet defeat. "Can't sleep."

"I can help. Mist it over for a few hours."

"You'd _see_. I told Obi-Wan a tiny bit – barely nothing – in words, but if I let you help you'd see _everything_. And then you really wouldn't... really _wouldn't_ love me anymore."

"Minx, it would not be possible for me to love you any more than I do. But you can't keep this up forever. You'll have to let me in eventually." He hoped that was true.

"The last man to say that to me..." Nasriel began, quite obviously with no intention of finishing the sentence.

"Was referring to your body, not your heart. We are luminous beings, not this gross matter."

"I don't feel very luminous just now, Master. Tired. Empty. Used and dirty and decidedly gross, but not luminous."

"Oh, little one. What have they done to you?"

"I'll show you," she offered unexpectedly, sharp and defensive. Not waiting for a reply, she sat up, turning to face the wall, and in one swift motion stripped off her tunic. Even from across the room, even in the dim light of her desk lamp, he could see the scars all too clearly, pale and dark, deep and raised, covering her back from shoulders to hips, above and below the tight-fitting breastband.

"Nasriel..." Qui-Gon sat down at the far end of the bed, staring in fascinated horror. The girl stiffened as she felt his eyes on her.

"You haven't seen the half of it." She turned to face him, entirely calm, staring through him into the middle distance. Here there were burns and knife slashes, as well as the fine net of whip marks.

Noticing Qui-Gon's expression of undisguised dismay, Nasriel said flatly, "Beautiful, aren't I? Don't worry, Master, half the men of Laerdocia have seen me nakeder than this. And about a quarter of the marks are too old to hurt much. And you needed to know."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. You didn't want this any more than I did."

"Do you think you could sleep if I stayed here?"

"I think so." Pulling her tunic back on to cover up the past, Nasriel wriggled down into the blankets. Settling himself semi-comfortably, seated on the end of the bed, Qui-Gon held out one hand to Nasriel, and her soft cold fingers curled gratefully around his rough warm ones. He gently drifted _sleep_ across the tenuous bond thus formed between them, a poor substitute for the casualness with which they had wandered through each other's minds in the past, but enough – for now. Nasriel slept until mid-morning, the now-familiar night terrors passing silently, and for once waking neither her nor her Master. Qui-Gon left at dawn, when he heard Tahl stirring in the next room.

"I'm assigned," she said proudly. "Had to fight for it, like usual, but I got a mission. Back in a week."

"If you're not I'll come after you."

"Try 'congratulations'. Anyway, Nasriel's on a healers' gating, and you wouldn't leave her behind. I _will_ be home in a week, Qui. Don't worry. And don't kill the girl while I'm gone."

By the time Nasriel emerged, tousled and disoriented, from her room, the crisp chill of the new day without had already begun to dull to a mere pleasant coolth. She shivered, but made no comment beyond a sleepy nod _good morning_ on her way to the refresher-room to shower.

"Hello," Qui-Gon greeted her reappearance. "Sleep well?" _Something's wrong_...

"I'm down to twenty-eight." The bond was still silent – she was deliberately keeping it so, shields meticulously in place, not a whisper of emotion. But he knew at once what she meant.

"Thirty a week ago had Master Che worried enough. And you've _lost_ weight since then? Are you trying to stay out of the dojo?"

"Believe me, Master, I would _love_ to get back to the old-fashioned humiliation of simply getting beaten in a 'saber bout. I've been trying, I really have, but I just can't keep anything down."

"Tea?"

"Nope. Water's enough of a challenge."

He pushed a cup across the table to her, poured steaming tea, added honey. "Try."

"I _can't_."

"That must be another of those bad words you learned while you were away. I said, _try_. You never used to give in without a fight, minx." For what felt like the first time since he had fetched her home from Chu'unthor, it was the right thing to say. Defiance blazing from her eyes, Nasriel picked up the cup and drained it, glaring at Qui-Gon over the rim.

"There. Okay?"

"Good girl." The gentle teasing they had previously used was now removed as a means of communication. No telling what might strike a nerve and send her back out into the dark. Tact, then. "Since you've been banned from the dojo, I felt a little solidarity was in order. So, as neither of us has anywhere particular to go, shall we meditate together?"

"Oh no. No no no. You don't get into my mind that easily." Her shoulders slumped dejectedly. "I really miss you, Master. But I – it's just too much of a mess right now."

He missed her too, missed the irreverent sparkle of her presence in the Force, half-shielded, at the edges of his mind. Like the glint of mica flecks in smooth grey granite. Like shining ripples on calm water. Nasriel overflowed with the optimism of the Living Force as none of the boys had done, a tiny, intense concentration of brilliant light. But for eight months, she had been gone, and now that light was dim and fitful, when he could sense it at all.

"Let me help."

"There's nothing you could do, Master." Her expression altered swiftly, from flat despondency to fleeting alarm. "Excuse me. I'm going to be sick."

A minute later, she was bending over the basin in the refresher-room, emptying the meager contents of her stomach. Qui-Gon stood beside her, holding her heavy dark hair out of her face. At length Nasriel stood up and grinned palely.

"I hate to say I told you so, Master, but..." She shook her head, wordlessly exhausted, and suddenly both far older and far younger than sixteen. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. You didn't ask for this any more than I did."

"Master...?" The question trailed off, as her eyes rolled grotesquely back in their sunken sockets, and her knees buckled, tipping her into an uncontrolled fall. Qui-Gon caught his Padawan before her head hit the tiled floor, lowering her gently to the ground.

"I'm here. I'm here."

Nasriel was thoroughly unconscious, and it was only as he picked her up that he realized how _little_ twenty-eight kilograms of flesh on a five-foot frame really was. Even Anakin, as a nine-year-old newly-freed slave, had had more bulk, less sense of being as delicate as a palmful of dried flowers, easily blown away by the least breath.

Qui-Gon laid her on the couch in the main room, tucked around her a blanket whisked from her bed; called Vokara at the medcenter for advice. The venerable Twi'lek healer demanded transmission of a blood scan before committing to anything.

Nasriel moaned painfully as the blood-test probe pierced the skin of her arm, but did not wake. Although Vokara acknowledged receipt of the scan at once, twenty anxious minutes passed before she called back with any information; in the meantime, Qui-Gon did not leave his Padawan's side. Once, her eyes drifted open, and she regarded him quizzically for a few seconds, unrecognizing, before lapsing back into unconsciousness. At last his comlink rang, and he stepped away to answer it.

"Well?"

"Well. We _do_ have a problem. I apologize for the delay; I had to request a file from the Archives, the medcenter doesn't keep data on viruses this exotic. It's called Nima, it's common throughout the Outer Rim, though this is the first Temple case. Spread by sexual contact, apparently. Nima is characterized by long incubation period – about three months – undetectability by scanners during this period, very sudden onset of symptoms. Otherwise, it's a standard fever. Dizziness-nausea-vomiting triad, high fever, complaint of feeling cold, often delirium, nerve pain, and so on."

Qui-Gon risked a glance at Nasriel. She was awake, lying shivering under the blanket and watching him discreetly, through lowered lashes. Vokara hadn't finished:

"Kills two-thirds of victims in otherwise good health. And there's one other thing, I'll leave it to you whether to tell Nasriel or not. Nima virus, in its presymptomatic phase in primigravid females, usually causes spontaneous abortion. You'll bring her in, of course. I'll see you in a few minutes." The call was terminated before he could tell Vokara that Nasriel was not an _object_ , to be 'brought' anywhere.

"Master?"

"I'm here, minx."

"Who was that?"

"That was Master Che. Apparently you've caught something called Nima, and she wants you in the medcenter to make sure it's nothing too serious."

"Okay." The Padawan worked her way to a sitting position, and after a minute with eyes closed and fingertips pressed to temples to regain balance, struggled shakily to her feet. "I'll be fine going on my own – I don't feel that sick, really, just cold. Stiff. I think it's some sort of 'flu."

"I'll accompany you, if I may." To stop her collapsing in the hallway and possibly doing herself a serious injury.

"I'm not a baby, Qui-Gon." The vulnerability revealed by her use of his proper name contrasted sharply with the fiery indignation of her tone.

"I agree. But humor me in this."

"Very well." Surface docility masking... he could not tell what it masked; Nasriel had learned from the best where it came to concealing emotions. _Frustration_ was a fair guess. She was still shivering, teeth rattling together whenever her concentration on clenching them eased.

As it turned out, it was just as well he insisted on going with her: they were not ten meters past the door when Nasriel stumbled, almost falling again, but instead leaning her slight weight on her Master's supporting arm. He understood the motivation that led her to insist on walking, spine straight and head high, although she was unsteady on her feet and her face was sharp with fever and sunken into shadows. Halfway across the Temple, she fainted again, and he carried her the rest of the way to the medcenter. He wasn't as young as he had been, but... Nasriel wasn't much of a burden.


	4. The Crisis

Vokara and a medical droid whisked the Padawan away as soon as they reached the medcenter, leaving Qui-Gon to wait alone. Eventually, a medcenter apprentice came to find him.

"Master Jinn, your Padawan is awake. She's asking for you."

Nasriel was still trembling with cold. For an instant, standing there in the doorway, he saw her as a stranger would, without the softening lens of affection. And she was... ugly. Grotesque. Surreal. Her head against the white sheets looked like a painted skull.

The moment passed, when Nasriel looked up to see him there, and smiled, a momentary arclight flash transforming her whole face.

"Hello, Master."

He fetched a chair, and came to sit beside her.

"Hello, minx."

"Tell me straight." The words were a demand, the tone a polite request, the voice a hoarse, whispered plea for the impossible. "How sick am I really?"

"Master Che won't tell you?"

"And so you're wondering if you should."

"Very. Dangerously. Enough that your Master is deeply concerned for you."

Nasriel nodded, calm and thoughtful. "And you don't concern easy."

"Easi _ly_. I am worried about you, Padawan mine."

He reached out to touch her hand. Bone-dry and hot. The child was burning up with fever.

"Qui-Gon?" Her fingers tightened abruptly on his. "The – the ceiling's shaking, I – I can't –"

"Be still. You must trust me; nothing is wrong with the ceiling."

"P-promise?"

"I promise. Calm down. Center yourself."

Nasriel's eyes slid shut, under the influence of a strong Force-suggestion, and she slept for the next few hours. Long enough for the healers to chemically sedate her, and install their usual range of businesslike, invasive biomonitors. Qui-Gon remained at his Padawan's side. Where he belonged. The girl had been alone long enough – longer than necessary, thanks to his misplaced reticence – and on the vague chance that she might wake unexpectedly, he would be there.

Midway through the afternoon, the chief healer paused, briefly, to inform him of Nasriel's status. Ordinarily, it would have been an odd, unnecessary gesture, but with their formerly durasteel-strong bond down, Master and Padawan were completely ignorant of each other's thoughts... feelings... everything from private griefs to state of health, that had previously been communicated without the clumsy interference of words. Vokara Che was realistic and blunt, and after she had gone, the Master remained, studying every angle of his Padawan's face, memorizing her.

She stirred, blinked, amber eyes unfocused by the healers' drugs.

"Qui-Gon?"

"I'm here."

"Master Che's gone. I heard her talking to you. I don't think she'd tell me the truth, but I know you will. Master, am I dying?"

"The future is still uncertain –"

"Answer the question," Nasriel rasped, vehemence pressing the words as far as a _loud_ whisper.

"Master Che thinks it likely that you will die before morning, yes." Words no Master should ever have to use to their Padawan. Words the war had forced too many Masters throughout the Order into acquaintance with.

"...Hurts." The word emerged as barely a sob. "...hurts so much." He could dull the pain. He could not dull its cause. Once again, he could not save her. "Won't – won't give her the satisfaction."

"That's my girl." It broke his heart to see her like this, in agony, desperately dueling against fate. But Nasriel was a fighter by nature, and, today, that might be enough.

"Need your help. Sorry, Master. Can't... fight it alone."

"I might see." She was terrified of his knowing what had been done to her. Terrified of his reaction, though he knew it would only be love and gentleness and whatever comfort he could offer. In case she had not thought of it, he had to remind her – that reinstating their bond so he could help save her life would allow him access to her memories again.

"I don't _care_ – no, wait." Nasriel extricated her hands from the swathes of blanket, tangling an IV line along the way, and held them out towards him, palms down, as steady as her pathetic reserves of strength would allow. "I'll show you straight up. So you don't get surprised later."

His hands under hers, palm to palm, imperceptibly supporting, only now noticing anew – as every time – the disparity in size.

"Ready, Master?"

"How much are you giving me?" There would be no stopping the flood of memory once it began.

"Highlights tour," Nasriel said, mouth twisted wryly. The amber eyes shone hardly in determination, then flicked shut as Nasriel's head tipped back on the pillow, the physical manifestation of reopening harsh memories.

Not for the first time in their thirteen-year acquaintance, Qui-Gon silently thanked the Force that his Padawan 'remembered from outside'; as if observing her own memories from somewhere outside her body, usually from high up and slightly to the left. It was hard enough having to watch, helpless, as his Padawan – _his little girl_ – was tortured and violated, having to listen to her screams and feel her terror and despair.

It seemed like months – it spanned only hours – before the stream of dark recollections ceased. Back in the peace and safety of the medcenter room, with the lights of the city twinkling through the window, Nasriel gently squeezed his hand, still clasped in hers.

"There. Now you know."

He could hear his own breathing, harsh and uneven, and noticed that his hands trembled before noticing why. It was rage. Pure, white, holy fury at what these... these _things_ had made Nasriel suffer. Men. They were men, though they tainted the very meaning of the word. _Men_ protected the vulnerable, the innocent, _men_ were honorable. _He_ was honorable.

"Master..." Nasriel's broken whisper. He had forgotten that she could hear him thinking. After eight months apart, Qui-Gon had grown wearily familiar with being alone in his own mind. For a fleeting instant, he missed the solitude; then realized that he had missed the company more.

"Yes, Nasriel."

"Don't be angry. It's all in the past now. And you can't help me if you're angry. I need your help."

Gentle, breathing anger away into regret, he ran his fingers through the black silk of her hair. Savored the faint smile it raised on her face.

"What do you need me to do?"

"I've got... the _skill_ to boost my immune system using the Force... just not the strength. So tired."

"So you'll draw off me." True, she couldn't do that if he was angry. It seemed vital to give Nasriel such command of the situation as was his to give. Force knew she'd been out of control in her own life for far too long.

"If that's all right with you, Master."

"Of course." He just had to trust her to have the necessary finesse to pull this off without killing herself. Had to gamble everything on the hope that his Padawan knew her limits. "Do you want any help with the trance?"

"Please." Nasriel lay still and closed her eyes, retaining Qui-Gon's left hand in hers, leaving the right free. They had done this a hundred times before, but never in a case where the Force screamed so shrilly of urgency. Hand spanning her forehead, feeling for the matching pulses in the temples. It was entirely possible to perform the whole delicate procedure without touching, without even being in the same room, but mind and body were threaded together so intricately that the physical touch smoothed the path for the psychical connection.

In a few seconds, Nasriel had drifted deep into the Force. And that was the easy part. The fine tendrils of her mind's edge tugged at him, insistent, and he poured energy into the bond until it would hold no more. The rest was up to Nasriel, so deep in the Force, so far away, he could hardly feel her presence.

All at once, the smooth blue skin under his hand grew hotter, the involuntary shiver deepened, and Nasriel returned rapidly to the surface of her mind, her draw on him ending as easily as it had begun.

"Done all I can. Abide in the Force and have hope, now."

The trance broken, he withdrew his touch, pausing to gently stroke her cheek on the way.

"Well done. Rest. You need all your strength."

"Stay here?"

"Of course. I'm not going anywhere. You're safe." Nasriel barely had time to nod before exhaustion pushed her over the edge of consciousness.


	5. The Unlocking

Toward midnight, Qui-Gon was drowsing where he sat, when the evidently sleepless Vokara appeared suddenly.

"Ultimatum time, Jinn."

"Never present an ultimatum to a career diplomat," he countered, still half-asleep.

"Career maverick and nuisance, you mean," the healer corrected tartly. She was holding a syringe, and briskly added its contents to Nasriel's IV line. "You are to leave – now – eat something, drink something, and get some sleep in your own quarters. You may come back at dawn."

"I'll sleep here. I told Nasriel I would stay with her."

"With the amount of somatazine presently in her bloodstream, she won't know for the next six hours whether you're here or not. Now leave."

"I promised her –"

"All right. Leave, eat, drink, and you can come back and sleep in that chair if you really want to."

Before Vokara could change her mind again, Qui-Gon promptly vacated the premises, though not without wondering whether this modified demand had been all the healer hoped to achieve in the first place. He made straight for the refectory, where he roughly cajoled one of the serving droids into handing over a muja fruit and a piece of bread; not, perhaps, a standard meal, but enough in the circumstances. Self-restricted by the time limit specified by _as little as possible_ , he consumed the untidy repast almost without chewing, certainly without tasting it, and hastily gulped down a beaker of water. He was almost back at the medcenter, having been gone twenty minutes, when a stab of terror struck at him through the Force-bond.

Nasriel was fully alert, eyes wide in panic, expending energy she could not spare, frantically resisting the somatazine.

"Qui-Gon!"

"It's all right." Taking back his former place, Qui-Gon reached out to touch her, lightly caressing her hair, cheek, jawline. Her thin, feverish fingers grabbed convulsively at his, gripping with surprising tenacity.

"Couldn't – couldn't find – scared –"

"Master Che insisted I go away and eat something. I didn't mean to frighten you. You're supposed to be out cold."

"Couldn't find you. Thought I was drowning – suffocating – I'm sorry!"

"It's all right," he repeated. "Center yourself. I'm not going anywhere; you can stop fighting the drugs now."

It was dawn when he woke, having not intended to sleep, arms crossed on the edge of Nasriel's bed, head resting on arms. The Padawan had interlaced her fingers with his, moments before relinquishing the battle to the somatazine, and their hands were still locked together. Nasriel idly twisted a strand of his long, silvering hair, and watched to see when he would wake.

"G'morning, Master."

"How long have you been awake?"

"Five minutes – ten minutes –" she shrugged. "I don't know."

"Feeling better?" Sitting up, but retaining the handclasp, he studied her narrowly. Her skin was marginally cooler this morning, but there was no other change.

"I feel... ephemeral. Like every moment matters." Nodding, satisfied with the words, but wanting more, Nasriel went on dreamily, "Everything except me is very real and solid and permanent... and beautiful. And I'm light as a butterfly and not entirely here. Do you know?"

"Yes." Though he had not expected her to be _quite_ this high on the after-effects of a common sedative, the phenomenon was not unfamiliar. Abruptly, Nasriel turned to look straight at him, and became entirely herself again.

"There's one other thing I need to show you, Master. You won't like it. But it was... absolutely the worst moment of all."

Qui-Gon stared back, appalled. None of what she had shown him yesterday had been _the worst_? His beloved little girl had suffered harsher realities than _that_? Apprehensive, he held out his hands, palms up, and told himself sternly that is was his duty to support and comfort his Padawan. No, more, it was his _privilege_. She had chosen to trust him with her darkest secrets, and Force knew he'd done little enough to deserve that trust. This was beyond a duty – this was an honor.

"When you're ready, Padawan."

The image before him lurched suddenly from the clear light of the medcenter to the soft grey of an overcast afternoon, looking across a cheap inn room toward the window. On the window-seat, a thin girl knelt, arms curled protectively around her swollen belly, gazing through the grimy transparisteel of the window to the street three floors below. She wore a grey dress, and her black hair was loosely plaited, in a single thick line down her back. Though quiet enough, the atmosphere of the room roiled with conflicting emotions: shame and indignation, misery and hope. Somehow, Qui-Gon knew that whomever the girl was watching, she was afraid to speak to – and desperately wanted to speak to – and had sent away – and wished would return – and loathed – and adored. For an instant, he caught a glimpse past her, through the window, and saw a tall man, clad in a dark cloak, iron-grey hair blown by the wind, walking away down the street without a backward glance. The girl in the room began to cry, and the image faded.

Nasriel lay watching him, an odd expression on her face, and he gradually worked out the component emotions. Apology. Defiance. Fear. Pity.

"That," she said softly, "was the worst."

"However many times I tell you I'm sorry, I can never begin to set it right. Forgive me."

"Weeks ago," came the whispered assurance. "I forgave you weeks ago. I love you, Master." And she did. Blindingly, impossibly, wonderfully, despite all that had happened, it stood out across the bond.

"I love you too." Why had it taken almost losing her to let him say it? "How are you feeling?"

"Still ephemeral. Cold, nauseous – but I'm getting used to those. And one other thing; I just worked out what it is."

"What's that?"

"Guilty." Sitting up, awkwardly, feebly, Nasriel covered her face with her hands. "The – the baby. A Jedi values all life. I tried to protect it, stop it being crushed against... things... make sure it didn't get hurt... but it – but I – it didn't work. And I should have been... able to..." she was talking in gasping, hiccupy sobs, teetering on the brink of hysteria. Qui-Gon stood, and silently wrapped his arms around her, holding her close, one hand cupped soothingly around the back of her skull. And then he told her.

This time there would be no serene injunction to calmly feel, then release, the emotion. Some things took a long time even to feel, for when grief became established as a baseline, all that remained was varying degrees of _numb_. Nasriel wept in his arms for over an hour, quiet, dignified, though he could feel the warm tears soaking through his tunic. He held her for a long time after the tears dried, rocking her like a youngling. No words were needed – no words would have sufficed – but silence, drenched across the Force-bond with connotations untold, meant more than any words could have.

"All right?" he asked eventually.

"Yes. Thank you, Master."

Vokara appeared with good news shortly after noon: the Senate-funded city medcenter had larger premises, and so could afford to keep a stock of targeted antivirals for practically everything. And someone had convinced them that they could spare one unit of the Nima antiviral.

"Don't need it," Nasriel argued. "Doing just fine, thank you, Master Che." She didn't want the drugs because _they_ had given some of the girls illegal narcotics and barbiturates to control them, and she was scared of anything going into her bloodstream now, and she didn't _want_ drugs, and –

"Padawan..." _This is not remotely similar_. Some things were best said wordlessly. Some things even the healers didn't need to know about.

"It will help your body fight the virus, and get you out of my medcenter faster," Vokara said crisply. "And what is more Master Jinn agrees with me. Don't you?"

"Yes. As to _why_ , minx – because I said so. Trust me."

Qui-Gon held Nasriel's hand as Vokara injected the drug – partly for reassurance, partly for the purely practical purpose of keeping her still.

"Fine," the healer pronounced. "We'll see how that goes."

It went surprisingly well, and two days later Nasriel was officially released from the medcenter, having demonstrated to Vokara's satisfaction that she was capable of consuming – and retaining – normal food and water. Walking home at Qui-Gon's side, though, she still held his hand – just in case – because it was a long journey for her, halfway across the Temple.

At the door to their quarters, Nasriel turned to her Master.

"I'm not dead," she said seriously.

"Indeed you are not. And there is none gladder than I that that is the case."

Over the next week, sparring and the dojo remained out of the question – but Vokara had neglected to ban practicing lightsaber kata out of doors. And if kata occasionally slipped into _practice_ of dueling technique... well, nobody needed to know. Unexpectedly – for neither Qui-Gon nor Nasriel was keeping track of time – Tahl returned home from a successful mission, comming her old friend from the hangars as a five-minute courtesy.

"Nasriel, would you go to your room for a while? There are some things Tahl and I need to discuss."

"Can I go next door instead? I want to ask Obi-Wan for some help on this diplomacy assignment for class."

Obi-Wan opened the door at the first knock.

"Come in. Is everything all right, Sriel?" he checked, using her 'family' pet name that had been in currency since Qui-Gon first explained, thirteen years ago, that he intended to break tradition and train a Saalisan half-breed girl.

"Getting there, Bi-An," his Master's Padawan replied candidly, retaliating in kind with a relic of the days when she had had limited Basic skills and absolutely no idea how to pronounce a _wesk_. It was purest misfortune that Xanatos had adopted the mistake as a nickname. "Getting there slowly. I came to ask if you could explain a clause of the Asmeru treaty."

"I think so," he assured her. It would have been odd if he could not, considering that he had negotiated the treaty in the first place. "Which clause?" They spent an hour engaged in the intricacies of Galactic politics before Obi-Wan was finally satisfied with his student's comprehension of the passage.

Deactivating her datapad, Nasriel murmured, softly enough that Obi-Wan could have pretended, without breach of manners, not to have heard, "One other thing..."

"Oh?" he enquired, ignoring the bait.

"There's one more negotiation I hope you can explain to me someday." In answer to the silent query of raised brows and a quizzical stare, she elaborated, "The negotiation with a municipal pharmacist for a unit of Nima antiviral."

"Someday, Sriel. Someday," Obi-Wan promised.

At the door, she turned back for a moment.

"Thank you, Bi-An. Thanks for _everything_. I owe you... several." That glowing smile, brighter than ever after so long in exile, like incorruptible buried gold arduously unearthed.

"You're more than welcome – and you owe me nothing. Consider it a gift. It's good to have you back."


End file.
